Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a ****ing big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of ****ing fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the **** you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing ****ing junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, ****ed up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
Picture the scene: The other ****in' week there, doin' the ****in' Volley with Tommy, playing pool. I'm playing like Paul-****in'-Newman by the way. Givin' the boy here the tannin' of a lifetime. So it comes to there, during the last shot, the deciding ball of the whole tournament. I'm on the black and he's sittin' in the corner looking all ****in' biscuit-arsed. When this hard **** comes in. Obviously ****in' fancied himself, like. Starts staring at me. Lookin' at me, right ****in' at me, as if to say, "Come ahead, square go." You ken me, I'm not the type of **** that goes looking for ****in' bother, like, but at the end of the day I'm the **** with a pool cue and he can get the fat end in his puss any time he ****ing wanted like. So I squares up, casual like. What does the hard **** do? Or the so-called hard ****? Shites it. Puts down his drink, turns, and gets the **** out of there. And after that, well, the game was mine.